by Primula Bond
‘What a pathetic fool I am,’ he whispers. ‘Scared of my own shadow.’
‘Yes, you’re a fool. Because now it’s too late. The clock has struck. Cinderella’s time is up.’
A fidgety warmth is inside me, tightening, making my knickers damp. I push closer into his hands. We are at the top of the wheel’s ascent now. The glass dome is blanketed with snow.
Do it your way.
I take hold of the silver chain and pull him towards me. My breasts are big in the magical snowy light. I pull his sweater off, neck first, like he’s a schoolboy. He has a checked shirt on underneath. With his black hair ruffled he looks like a rock star just come off stage.
London is spread like a feast beneath us. The river is a silver path leading east.
The touch of his fingers on me just now, on my breasts. My nipples aching for his fingers, his mouth, his teeth, his tongue.
‘If this is goodbye, then the least you can do is kiss me again.’
He doesn’t move. I take his face, run my fingers down his lean cheeks, over his jaw, down his throat. I lift up my wrist to show him the bracelet, and slowly wind the silver chain in, round and round, until our hands are joined and our fingers interlink. He looks at me all the while. Questions are careering through his mind, I can tell. A running commentary to translate, going over his past, analysing our time together, regretting what we didn’t do. Foreseeing what comes next.
Sod it. I pull his face to mine and kiss him. Slowly and oh so carefully. I won’t let him pull away. If he tries, I’ll just pull him back. Our lips press harder and more urgently, swelling with excitement. Our mouths open to each other, wet and warm, breath rushing faster as our tongues push inside, entwine and taste. Our hands are clasped tight within the silver chain.
We’re halfway down. The snow has practically obliterated the city.
The wheel is still turning, carrying us slowly to the ground.
A series of small fires has been lit inside me, like beacons flashing messages from one army to the next. But I can’t decode them. If this is addiction, I want more of it. I want more kissing. I want more of Gustav. But the messages could simply be saying, the war is over.
I know he feels the same. Not only from the hardness of him pressing urgently against me as I hook my legs over his, but because it’s only when the doors of the pod slide open that he stops kissing me.
We stand up, pull our jackets and coats on, fling our scarves round our necks, all the time staring at each other like sleepwalkers, blushing and breathless. We carry the bottle and glasses, and uneaten chocolates, out into the cold.
London has disappeared behind a still falling sheet of snow.
We walk slowly across the bridge to delay our return to the gallery. The lights in the building are all off except one, and even through the snow we can still see my huge, sombre face.
‘Who bought the last two paintings, Gustav?’ I ask, shivering violently as we get to the other side and approach the building along the street. He stops me in the darkened lobby where Crystal used to sit.
‘We’re going up to meet the last buyer now. But first, open this.’
As in all the best finales it is an air ticket. I gape at it, then at him.
Has that internal commentary of his finally been translated, and is it all going my way?
‘I bought the self-portrait of Serena Folkes.’
Hot tears prick my eyes. ‘I should have known! So where are you going to hang it?’
‘Well, there are plenty of blank walls in the house here.’ He flaps the ticket in my face. ‘Or if you come to New York with me you can choose where it goes in my new apartment.’
I fling my arms around him and kiss him, full on the mouth, all the way up to the gallery in the lift. And he kisses me back.
Now I know where I’m going, and who I’m going with. But then Crystal’s voice echoes down the brief corridor of time we’ve had together.
The day he tells you about that is the day you’ll know he’s letting you right in.
The lift doors open and we step out into the corridor now full of crouching, leaping metal sculptures. A couple of unexpected live figures are in the gallery, too.
‘Hey, babes! Look at you all sleek and cool! Rocking this Star Trek vibe!’
It’s Polly, standing at the desk by the window with her arms outstretched. Crystal stands very still beside her like a sentry, looking straight at Gustav with an odd, blank expression. Something is flickering in her eyes, but I can’t tell what.
I rush over to Polly and give her a hug. ‘I didn’t realise you were still in town, Pol! And guess what? I’m coming to New York!’
‘Unbelievable! Maybe now I’ll be able to get hold of you more easily. You’ve been off the radar for weeks!’ She unbuttons her purple suede and silver fur Afghan coat and looks Gustav up and down as he kisses her hand. ‘Hmm. If this is the reason you stood me up I’ll let you off the hook. Just my type, too!’
‘Hands off! I’ve been preoccupied, to say the least.’ I’m bouncing with excitement. ‘And look! My first show sold out!’
‘Yes, I know, darling, because apparently I was the very last buyer. We bought that one. The Stairway to Heaven.’
‘We?’ Gustav frowns as he leans to switch off the Anglepoise lamp. He runs his finger down the final list of buyers. ‘I only have Polly Folkes here.’
‘Well, he lent me the money, because he’s richer than me. You are way too expensive for me these days, Rena. Where is he, anyhow? Honey? How long does it take to find a couple of champagne glasses? Come out here and say hi!’
Pierre steps out from the office kitchen carrying a bottle of champagne. He’s even more handsome than I imagined, now that he’s unmasked. Tall, broad, well dressed. And those eyes are even darker and more glittering than before.
‘Hey!’ I cry, opening my arms to give him a hug. ‘I didn’t recognise you without your mask.’
He smiles and opens his mouth to speak. Catches sight of something over my shoulder. And stops dead.
Gustav hasn’t moved. Crystal takes the glasses, but they rattle in her hands. She looks as if she’s been taken suddenly, terribly ill. She’s translucent with dismay.
Polly and I look at each other. The men are frozen, open mouthed, horrified.
‘Gustav?’ I put my hand on his arm. Even through his coat I can feel the muscles flickering with tension. ‘You said this would be a lovely surprise! You knew Polly was the other buyer. So why are you standing there as if you’ve seen another ghost?’
The two men take another step towards each other, but no more than that. They don’t extend hands for a handshake, arms for a hug. You could cut the atmosphere with a boning knife.
‘Hello, Pierre,’ says Gustav, his voice cracking uncertainly. ‘What’s brought you back?’
‘I found this in my car.’ The younger man holds up a business card and runs it along his darkly shadowed upper lip. ‘Hello, big brother.’
Read on for a taste of what happens next, taken from the second book in the series, The Golden Locket …
‘That night.’ She starts to speak slowly, as if in a trance. ‘Well, Pierre couldn’t hack it. He saw them at it. He tears upstairs, shouting the odds, packs his suitcase. Gustav doesn’t come after him, that makes Pierre even more furious, there’s a deathly hush, and then it’s Margot who’s rushing into his bedroom, stark naked except for a ripped shirt.’
I lift up a gleaming sliver of salmon and force my hand to remain steady as I put it in my mouth. At the next-door table a group of guys are glancing across at Polly and me. They must be able to hear what we’re saying, especially the words ‘naked’ and ‘ripped’, because they keep whispering amongst themselves.
‘So she’s taken off all her leather gear so as not so scare him. All the better to seduce little brother,’ I remark through my mouthful of salmon. ‘So? No great shakes. That’s what she’s good at. Pierre’s a good-looking boy. You know what they’re like at that age. Alway
s hard, and always grateful.’
She manages a weak smile. ‘Maybe. But you’re missing the point, honey. His was a lad’s world of pubs and rugby and his home had become this dark realm full of strangers filming each other copulating. Not only that but his adored big brother had lost the plot with all this sadomasochistic bondage or whatever you call it. Pierre feels contaminated. And then Margot’s flinging herself at him, begging Pierre to rescue her, take her away with him.’
Polly stops then, goes very pale again.
‘Don’t tell me any more if it upsets you.’ I push her plate across the table. ‘You need to eat.’
‘And you need to listen.’ She chews obediently on a piece of steak, and then another. Then she lays her fork down. In unison we drain our beer and she signals for another. The guys at the table nudge each other and smirk.
‘Pierre says it’s the sexiest thing that has ever happened to him. Sexier than anything I’ve ever done to him.’
Polly’s face is stricken as she speaks. The guys at the neighbour table are agog. I gulp. My throat has gone dry.
‘What did she do that was so sexy?’
‘That’s the weird thing. Nothing special. Just, all the ingredients; the trauma, the timing, the fact that it was forbidden. His brother’s wife. A winning formula. Here’s this femme fatale, a sophisticated, sexy older woman, she’s been living under the same roof, just along the landing, and here’s Pierre, a red-blooded young bloke, the observer who’s feeling left out and yet he fantasises about her year after year, when he’s in bed at night, takes himself in hand under the covers because no little flopsy can match up to his sister-in-law. He drives himself mad, jealous of his brother, wanting to see Margot naked, wanting to collide with her coming out of the shower, all wet and slippery, the towel unravelling. Yep. He told me all this.’
We stare at each other for a moment. We are both holding our knives and forks in the air like spears, the food not quite reaching our lips.
I gulp. ‘God, this really is too much information.’
She jabs her steak at me before popping it into her mouth. ‘There’s more. He used to hear her moaning in Gustav’s bed and it drove him up the wall with frustration.’
My sweet salmon hash threatens to find its way back up my throat. She may as well have stabbed me with her knife and fork. Cold sweat prickles under my hair. ‘Stick to the night in question. Please.’
‘Yes, your honour. So now the tables have turned, Margot’s the damsel in distress, crying and sobbing on his bed, tearing at her hair, tearing off her shirt, she’s so terrified of big bad Gustav, and Pierre goes to comfort her, and she pulls him down on top of her, and Pierre’s burning for her because just the sight of her in the doorway in this ripped shirt, her long bare legs, everything sweaty and ripped and dishevelled has turned him on and she wastes no time, she’s got his trousers off, and her hand is wrapped round him, she’s wriggling about on top of him like an eel and bingo!’ Polly slaps her hand down on the table, making the cutlery rattle, and our ear-wigging neighbours spill their drinks. ‘She’s banging him senseless.’
‘Bingo,’ I repeat faintly. My mouth has dropped open. I daren’t look at the next table. It seems that half the diner is now listening in, but perhaps that’s just my heightened sensitivity. I try to cough, but my throat is blocked. ‘Pierre fell for the oldest trick in the book. Ever heard of Eve? Salome? Delilah? Scheherazade?’
Polly stabs another piece of steak with her fork, and a little blood runs out of it. She lifts it up in front of her mouth and studies it. Her eyes are chips of blue glass arrowing at me.
‘Pierre was shagging his brother’s wife. Graphic enough for you?’ she hisses quietly. We all – me, the guys at the next table, the waitress bringing their bill – we all watch Polly as she pops the steak into her mouth, the flexing of the muscles in her jaw as she chews. ‘And the coup de grace? The bedroom door was wide open, so who do you suppose walked in and caught them in flagrante? Talk about a fearful symmetry. Anyway, hell was unleashed and Gustav chucked them both out. And that’s when I told Pierre to shut up with the story-telling. I didn’t want to hear any more.’
I smash the remains of the salmon hash on my plate. Our new beers arrive, droplets of condensation running down their smooth glass sides. I lift the glass and lick moisture off the side.
‘The only good thing is that it’s all out in the open now.’
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Acknowledgements
My thanks to all at Avon for this great opportunity, and in particular to Adam Nevill for his enthusiastic and unwavering support down the years.
About the Author
Primula Bond is an Oxford-educated mother of three boys and has lived in London and Cairo. She currently lives in Hampshire with her husband and younger sons and works part-time as a legal secretary for criminal defence lawyers as well as writing freelance ‘human interest’ features for the national press. She has written erotic short stories and novels for various publishers and magazines for twenty years and this is her fourth erotic novel.
Primula also offers a critique service for aspiring erotic and romantic writers through the online Writers Workshop.
Keep up to date with Primula’s news by following her on Twitter @PrimulaBond and on her blog primulabond.blogspot.co.uk
Copyright
Published by Avon an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2013
Copyright © Primula Bond 2013
Cover photographs © Shutterstock
Cover design © Steve Boggs 2013
Primula Bond asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007524174
Ebook Edition © July 2013 ISBN: 9780007524150
Version: 2013-08-21
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